


please don’t hate me

by larrymurphycansteponme



Category: I Was Born for This - Alice Oseman
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, M/M, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Yikes, alice pls write something bicci related and save us, also we need more bicci, the ark boys are MESSES, this is my first ao3 fic oh god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-30 17:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larrymurphycansteponme/pseuds/larrymurphycansteponme
Summary: Lister Bird is almost certain that Jimmy Kaga-Ricci hates him. Why wouldn’t he?





	please don’t hate me

**Author's Note:**

> OK SO LIKE THIS IS MY FIRST EVER AO3 FIC WOWIE!!!!!
> 
> i used to write trashy musical fanfics on wattpad but i think im too good for that crap so like,,,,, lets see lads
> 
> also i love this book sm, alice ur a lad xoxo
> 
> trigger warnings for like,,,, basically jimmy and lister being incapable of self care. y’all know what theyre like

Lister Bird is supposed to be getting better. As in, he shouldn’t be drinking his miseries away with tiny bottles of Prosecco from the mini fridge in his hotel suite. All to himself. No one to see him trying, and failing, to remain sober. It’s been two months, and he can’t do it. He just can’t. Lister Bird is a complete failure, sure, but no one needs to know that. Cecily would murder him. Like, actually scalp him. It’s not like they’re doing anything today, shockingly, but she’d still be pissy about it. They just flew into New York this morning, and they have the rest of the day off to recuperate, because jet lag is a major bitch. Tomorrow they have a photoshoot and interview with Pigeons and Planes. And Lister doesn’t wanna fucking go. Maybe he can get a hangover, throw up somewhere inconvenient and get out of it. Even though that never works. Even though Lister throwing up before doing something important like an interview or awards show or performance is a normal occurrence. At least, it was two months ago.

Lister’s new therapist keeps saying he’s making ‘such great progress, Allister, really,’ but that can’t be true. Room service is bringing him a bottle of red wine any second now. His favourite brand. He hasn’t had it in forever. The last time he drank red wine was That Saturday, and it was from Jimmy’s granddad’s wine cellar. Not the best, he won’t lie, but not awful. When Jimmy first told Lister he was an alcoholic, he thought he was making a joke. And then it nearly killed him. Still wouldn’t believe it, not even after Rowan and Cecily and his mum and literally every single person in his life said so. No, for Lister to be convinced, it took his therapist, and a really fucking horrible diagnosis. He’s an alcoholic. Yep, addicted. Gonna ruin his liver if he’s not careful. The ideal situation, his therapist had said, would be to go on a twenty-eight day rehab program, but Cecily and the PR team advised against it. The band had already had two weeks of downtime whilst Lister was recovering from That Saturday, and it wasn’t looking good. Lister really didn’t want his pathetic little habit to get out, either. 

So. Maybe this wouldn’t be happening now if he wasn’t part of an internationally famous boy band. Then again, he probably wouldn’t be an alcoholic then. Working some crappy job, trying his absolute hardest to keep him and his mum off the streets. Maybe Jimmy and Rowan wouldn’t even be in his life.

Oh. 

Oh God. That thought scares the shit out of him. The only thing Lister really has, besides his mum, is his friends. Rowan and Jimmy just understand. Understand how it feels to be in The Ark, understand that Lister is a complete mess, understand that it’s almost impossible for him to be _better_. And they still love him. Lister doesn’t deserve friends like them. He doesn’t deserve their unconditional support, as he fucks all his progress up, alone, in a hotel room. Drunk and miserable.

The last time Lister was drunk and miserable was That Saturday. The time before that, Jimmy’s birthday. Being drunk and miserable on your best friend’s birthday probably isn’t very good. Neither is kissing them in a bathroom without their consent. Jesus, why did Lister even do that? He’s a stupid drunk, and an emotional drunk.

Because he’s an emotional drunk, he winds up thinking about all the repressed stuff he daren't tell his infamous therapist. Like, for example, Jimmy Kaga-Ricci. And Lister’s soul-crushing, ever-depressing, like-he’s-back-in-Year-8-level-of-embarrassing crush on him. And how he fucked all of that up by kissing him, drunk, on one of the worst days of his life. It’s a close second, he would say, to That Saturday. Lister only came to this conclusion recently, but he thinks he likes to get drunk so he can forget about that; Why Lister Bird Can’t Have A Crush On Jimmy Kaga-Ricci. Instead, Drunk Lister focuses on other things. Like how attractive Jimmy is, and how he wants to make him smile, and then kiss him and tell him he loves him. Drunk Lister is pretty fucking dumb, yeah. But so is Lister.

Another half an hour later, he’s downed most of the wine brought up by room service. Lister is feeling slightly less miserable. Barely. Fuck. It’s not working like he remembers, but for all he knows, he could just not be drunk enough.

“Lister?” Suddenly, a door swings open, causing Lister to sit bolt-upright on the bed, the green tinted bottle clanking, and falling onto the carpet. It’s okay. It was mostly empty, anyway. What’s not okay is the look of utter disappointment on Jimmy Kaga-Ricci’s face. Lister Bird forgot their hotel suites had conjoining, unlocked doors. The hotel lists them as ‘large family suites’. Lister feels unbearably sick, but for once, it’s not because of the booze.

“Did you drink all of that?” It’s a stupid question. Of course he did.

Lister nods sheepishly, hiccuping. He feels like a little kid, back at school, being scolded for disrupting the classroom. Nothing new there. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s fine,” Jimmy sighs, “or, well— no. It’s not. Not really.”

The most painful silence ensues. Lister is staring at the wall mounted TV, but it’s not turned on. He wishes it was, that it was playing Brooklyn-99, so he could inappropriately quote it and lighten the mood. Jimmy looks so sad. It makes Lister feel really, really sad too. Unbearably so.

“You were— I thought you were better now?” His voice is small. Hell, Jimmy is small anyway, and he’s shrinking in on himself. Lister is scaring him, he’s in such a drunken mess.

“Yeah, well,” Lister huffs out a laugh, hauling himself to stand up— though he stumbles a little— and take a step or two towards Jimmy, “I guess I’m not.”

Oh shit. He wants to cry. Not like he does, though. He’s edging closer and closer to Jimmy, and it feels like his birthday again. But it’s not. Please don’t let Lister fuck it up again. His one brain cell that isn’t dedicated to being a bisexual disaster tells him to stop. So he does. He wraps his arms around Jimmy’s shoulders tightly, and hides his face in the crook of his neck. Just. Breathing. Being. Lister swallows, and exhales— his breath smells bad.

“Sorry, Jimmy.”

He pats Lister on the back softly. “Why do you do it?”

“Why not?” It seems so obvious to Lister now. Why not get drunk and throw your life away? _Nineteen years too old._ His own words are echoing in the back of his head, reminding Lister he should’ve probably just died That Saturday. He opens his mouth to say something more, something else, anything to explain his bad habits and his hopelessness, but nothing comes out. And then he’s crying. Charismatic, internationally adored, perfect and flawless and godlike-attractive Lister Bird is snivelling into his crush’s shoulder because he’s a miserable alcoholic. At age nineteen.

“Hey, Lister,” Jimmy rubs circles over his back with the palm of his hand, “you’re okay. It’s okay.”

“Please don’t hate me.” He chokes on his own words. Why is this happening all over again?

Jimmy sighs softly. “I don’t hate you. You’ve said that to me God knows how many times, and I still _love_ you. Okay?” He continues to rub Lister’s back, until his sobbing subsides to occasional sniffs and hiccups. And then they just stay there, like that, Lister still hanging limply with his arms wrapped around Jimmy’s neck. Clinging to him. Too afraid to let go, too afraid to look up and see his face. Jimmy loves Lister, sure, but he loves him like he loves Rowan. Lister loves Jimmy like— he can’t— he doesn’t have the words for it. Three fucking years. There’s a six-month rule, or something, about crushes. Lister researched it a whole goddamn lot in Year 10, during his sudden infatuation with Jimmy and his sexual awakening.

“I was gonna come in here and ask if you wanna play Mario Kart with us, but I’m assuming all you want right now is a cold Lucozade and some rest.” Lister simply nods in response to Jimmy’s suggestion. “And then,” Jimmy continues in his soft, soft voice, “I’m gonna tell Cecily.”

Lister’s head shoots up in alarm. “Do you want me to die?”

“No, I just— you should probably go on that program. And I don’t think she gets how bad this,” he makes a vague hand gesture to the empty bottles, “has become.”

Lister straightens out, still holding Jimmy, now staring him in the eyes. His eyes are so pretty. Fuck. “I love you too, by the way.” His words are so slurred.

Jimmy smiles softly. “You’re an idiot.”

They fall back into silence, just looking at one another. In Lister’s case, he’s admiring the other boy. He moves his left hand from Jimmy’s shoulder to pat his cheek softly. And then trace his jawline. Currently, Lister’s one brain cell that isn’t dedicated to being a bisexual disaster is fucking screaming inside his mind. He tilts his head, about to lean in, when Jimmy stops him. Obviously. What a fucking idiot Lister Bird is. Jimmy has, ever so slightly, barely at all, pushed him back. He’s blushing, though. Lister is too drunk and confused for this.

“Sorry—” his voice is slurred, but he hopes Jimmy can hear the sincerity in his apology. His half-assed, drunken apology. Lister’s fingers are still grazing Jimmy’s chin, and he’s scared to move. Doesn’t know what to do. Lister never knows how to react in these scenarios, which leaves him wondering why he puts himself in them. Don’t kiss people who don’t like you back. Pretty simple.

Jimmy huffs softly. “You still like me?”

Lister just nods dumbly. Jesus. If he’d gotten a half-decent grade in English Language he’s sure he’d have the words to explain it. But he doesn’t. He just Really Likes Jimmy. “Yeah.” He chuckles softly. Even though he kinda wants to cry. Cry, drink, laugh, kiss Jimmy. Those are the only things swirling around his mind right now. “I dunno why. Not like you’d ever actually like me.” Lister is now rambling. Drunkenly rambling about his emotions, specifically, is bad. But Jimmy looks unfazed.

“Why do you think that?” His eyes are soft and, God, his tone is full of concern. Concern Lister doesn’t deserve. He scoffs at Jimmy.

“Because you just don’t. And, like, I’m not gonna get upset about it,” his voice is high pitched, “I— I mean, fuck,” he laughs, but it’s strangled and forced, and everything just really sucks right now. It hurts to swallow and he keeps blinking again and again. He continues, “I just ruin everything.”

And then Lister does something that makes him really mad. He makes Jimmy frown. A proper, authentic Jimmy Kaga-Ricci frown, brow furrowed, mouth turning down in a sort-of pout, sort-of scowl. And it’s because of what Lister said. All Lister wants to do is make Jimmy happy, the happiest he could ever be, and he just did the opposite. Fuck.

“Can you please stop being a melodramatic drunk for one second?” He asks in a soft, but stern tone. Lister blinks, and now it’s his turn to frown.

“I’m not being melodramatic—”

“You think I hate you. No matter what I do to insist I don’t, you keep on asking me, again and again, for the reassurance that I don’t. Why would I ever hate you? How could I ever hate you?” Jimmy sighs exasperatedly, “I fucking love you, Lister.” And that’s the first time Jimmy has yelled, like, properly raised his voice at Lister, in the longest time. He flinches a little. It probably sounds louder because he has a headache, from a combination of crying and alcohol.

Jimmy’s expression softens, and he opens his mouth, about to say something more. He hesitates, and it doesn’t come. Instead, he claps Lister gently on the back, and says, “I’m gonna go get room service.” Then he leaves. Lister huffs, sitting down heavily on the king sized bed, all to himself. Sure, it’s nice to have all that space, and it’s a fucking comfy bed, but it’s a weird, nostalgic feeling of singleness to have a king sized bed to yourself. That transition from little kid to teenager, single bed to double bed. It’s not like double beds are designed for bigger people, no, they’re designed for two people. Lovers. And Lister, aged nineteen, feels incomplete because he’s an alcoholic with a king sized bed all to himself, both in this hotel and at home. A lonely addict with no one to love.

Around five minutes later, Jimmy returns with Lister’s favourite sobering-up drink. The Lucozade is cold, and for a second, he presses the bottle to his head. Small beads of condensation drip all over his hand and run down his Givenchy sleeve. Jimmy sighs, and says, “Sorry for yelling.”

“Sorry for being a complete moron.” Lister shrugs.

“You know when Rowan tells me I’m too self-deprecating and insists I need to love myself more?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s what you need to fucking do.” He smiles softly, sitting down next to Lister. Close. Lister glances at him, before taking a sip of his drink.

“Yeah,” Lister admits, “I know. I just— it feels like you have every reason to hate me. But you don’t. You’re so nice to me, and all I do in return is drink, inconvenience you and piss Rowan off.” 

There’s a small pause. Jimmy seems to not know what to say to that. Lister suddenly feels sick, so he takes another swig of his Lucozade. It’s making him feel worse, though. He doesn’t wanna throw up all over Jimmy. Jesus, no. That would be a fucking disaster. Vomit, on your best friend after he catches you Not Being Sober. No thanks.

“I know you’re drunk right now,” Jimmy finally speaks, wringing his hands together nervously, “but I, um,” he doesn’t finish. It’s so uncannily similar to the last time this happened. Just reversed. Jimmy leans in and kisses him, and Lister— he feels like someone has punched him in the throat. Or maybe the heart. Both? Either way, death is eminent. The whole Cupid’s arrow thing always seemed surprisingly dark and morbid to Lister, and it makes sense now. Jimmy is kissing him, not the other way around, and he feels like he can’t function, but it’s good. Bittersweet. Whatever. And he finds his hand cupping Jimmy’s cheek and his tongue in his mouth. This feels like Jimmy’s idea. This is Jimmy’s idea. Oh God. Jimmy kissed Lister and Jimmy’s fingers are twirling around strands of his hair, and there are soft, muffled sighs, and hitched breaths, and it feels right.

Then it feels wrong. Because Lister is drunk. Drunk Lister plus emotions plus Jimmy Kaga-Ricci kissing him equals A Fucking Disaster. He pulls away, with an eerily quiet, “Why did you do that?”

Jimmy is flushed brick red. “I... don’t know.” And, God, Lister wants to cry. Jimmy can see it, and panic hits him, eyes wide, so he blurts out, “I think I like you back.”

Dying again. Fuck his liver collapsing from alcoholism, Lister’s heartstrings are gonna snap, like that one time Rowan strummed a new, Very Fucking Expensive bass guitar, broke the strings and had to buy new ones. Except, instead of six strings that can easily be replaced, it’s Lister’s life. _Jimmy thinks he likes him back._ All of Lister’s horrible, horrible thoughts that his best friend, and quite possibly, the love of his damn life, hates him feel weirdly distant. His biggest fear, the weighty pressure of ruining the one thing he has is gone. Lifted up from his shoulders and politely told to leave the room. For good. _Please_ _don’t_ _hate_ _me_ , he has begged again and again. But maybe, just maybe, Jimmy is on the complete opposite of the spectrum.

Lister hesitates. He feels slightly less drunk now. Still drunk, though. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy shifts awkwardly, “because all I can ever seem to do around you is think about, like, how badly I wanna make you feel happy. And loved. And I thought it was like, in a friend way, but... it’s different. To, like, with Rowan.”

“Oh.” He says again.

Silence.

“But, now I fucking regret everything, because you’re not ready for that right now, and you’re drunk, and I’m sorry because I put you in this situation when I shouldn’t have—”

“Can I kiss you again?” It’s slurred, but coherent. Hasty, but considerate. Lister would want to kiss Jimmy wether or not he was drunk. Lister kinda always wants to kiss Jimmy.

“You don’t hate me?” Jimmy looks confused, surprised, and it makes Lister bark out a laugh.

“If my greatest fear is you hating me, how could _I_ ever hate _you_?” He scoffs, grinning widely at Jimmy. They’re nose to nose at the moment. Jimmy appears to not know what to say in response to that.

“That’s your greatest fear?” He asks, after a considerable amount of time. Lister nods softly.

“We’re in a band. I like you. A lot. If you hated me, I’d be in some pretty deep shit.”

Jimmy bites his bottom lip. “I like you a lot too.”

Lister sits back, uncapping his Lucozade and drinking from it again. He lowers the bottle from his mouth slowly, thinking. Trying to be as sober as he can be, trying to think. He drinks go forget about thinking, after all. Right now, he kinda needs his brain.

“If we— getting together could destroy the band.” He says, sadly.

“I was talking to Rowan about it—” Jimmy starts, but Lister cuts him off by repeating him in a shocked tone. Fuck. Rowan hates change. Rowan will probably make fun of him for the rest of his life for having a crush on Jimmy. Like, Lister loves him. Of course he does. Rowan is the only reason they ever formed a band, really, because he had the balls to give him a chance. But, that boy really can’t deal with things being slightly shaken up.

Jimmy shrugs. “He doesn’t care. Like. If we did.”

Lister blinks. “Oh.”

“Mm.”

“Right,” he pauses, “wanna go on a date, then?”

“You’re drunk,” Jimmy laughs, “we should talk about this when you’re sober.”

“When I’m sober...” Lister echoes, mumbling the words. He’s only half here, really. His mind is fogged up with booze, and it’s making it difficult for him to understand his emotions. It feels so surreal, staring at Jimmy in the way he always does, lovestruck, and wondering if Jimmy is currently looking back at him with the same warm feeling in his chest. He hopes so. He really, really hopes so.

For once, Lister Bird is certain Jimmy Kaga-Ricci doesn’t hate him

__


End file.
